Many miles have I traveled and many things have I seen...
     But never before have I stood and faced the green of England. Nor did I know that in truth, it would be so grey.
     Grey, without even any irony intended...
     He has said his farewells to Paris - without regret, though not without trepidation. The serviceable flat in the Rue de Payennes has been closed, his personal possessions all packed away, shipped away, across the Channel. And he? He remained long enough to make his appearances at Court - say meaningless farewells, and gain permissions, and then to leave...
     He's cut his hair again before going, acknowledging the gesture to be in some way symbolic. It's short again, not short enough to be military, but a little spiky; it sways in the cold air coming off the water as he makes his way through the streets. Black on black, silver on black - pale gold for hair, pale blue for eyes, black jacket and black trousers, white shirt and black boots and a silver tie and black gloves with silver luminescence at the tips.
     He did confess a liking for shiny things, even if usually it is held so in reserve...
     And now he has arrived. The German in London, instead of Paris - will it be less awkward? Will he feel less a stranger in a strange land? Is there anywhere that he is less than estranged? Time, perhaps, and time alone will tell. But this is unknown - save that as he stands outside his temporary accommodations, as he faces the grey buildings, a phone is held to his ear, another minute flash of silver. And with it, a number flashes across your own.

     There are nights that inspire joy, and nights that inspire contemplation; there are nights which seem to drag on and remind one of eternity, and nights that seem to flash away in the blink of an eye...
     Tonight is a night of frustration, though it is as much a carry over from the previous night as anything else. Greydon is at home, dealing with Business, and although he doesn't normally mind it-- tonight things are not going quite according to plan.
     He's speaking to an associate, a Brujah ancilla by the name of Jacob who works with and for him quite often. "That will not do. None of our people know who did it? I'll ask around-- You go find Henry and see if he has heard any rumors. Try to get it out of him without owing him much; but check your skin as you leave to make sure he didn't stea---" and then the phone rings.
     Treveylan turns around from where he reclines on his desk to lift up his cell, quirking a brow slightly as he recognizes the number.
     "Hansl." he greets, his voice even, if perhaps a touch cool. "Good evening."

     A slight blink. Du ist? "Gut nicht," the Toreador artiste greets quietly. "I hope that I do not trouble you at an improper time, mein herr."
     No, I do not know what to say to him. This uncertainty - I do not know. But I must say something. Ja? Jawohl...
     Hansl presses on, putting a hand up to his other ear as he takes a step along the cement, beneath the towering brick and stonework of the buildings. "I wished to inform you of my arrival. Presently, I am at -" A pause. A blank look. Street signs. Where is he, again? Ah, yes. "I am at Haymarket, along the Strand. I wished to confirm matters with you. Would you prefer I call another night?"
     Ever polite is our Hansl, the model of decorum and civilized breeding...

     "No, no." replies Greydon, "Just a moment." he adds.
     The Lord Treveylan glances over to the other Brujah, and inclines his head, "Go find out what you can." There is an instinctive hint of command into it; he is one who was born to lead, after all.
     A deep breath is taken, though none is needed; it is a throwback to centuries ago when such things were relaxing, comforting. "It's been a stressful evening, but there's nothing more to be done with it tonight. I can send a car to pick you up if you would like? Unless you have rented one yourself."
     His voice is a little bit softer now, lacking that previous chill to it. Still even, and largely unreadable, it is simply nothing now that makes one think of shivering.

     He relaxes, a trifle. Only a trifle, but - he is not one who relaxes easily, and he is on edge, even if he is trying not to be. His first night in a strange country. Who is to say that there are not enemies all around? Unfamiliar territory. Unfamiliar scents. Unfamiliar people, and peoples.
     "That is very kind of you, and nein. Nein, I have not rented a car." He drives, only a little; something learned in the Army, and only kept up a little. "If you will tell me where I ought be, I shall wait. I will bring only what I need - I do not wish to put you out, mein herr." Hansl's lips quirk a little; this is - new. Everything, again, is new. In such short order...
     His hand remains pressed to his ear, and he steps into the shadow, the shelter of a doorway, watching people pass by. It is spring. It is about to rain. "Perhaps," Hansl adds hesitantly, "I should bring a small portion of my supplies, to have at your abode, my lord? If I am still to paint you, of course."

     Over the phone there is a soft chuckle, as Greydon moves around to settle in his chair. He opens a box and pulls out a cigar, cutting the end and lighting it as he speaks, "Bring whatever you wish; my house has more room then you could possibly fill. In particular, whatever supplies you may need, so that you do not have to lack should the inspiration take you." The voice shifts slightly, at those last three words; a darker note, a husky depth.
     A moment as he takes a deep breath of the cigar and then slowly exhales, "I will send one of my-- servants, to pick you up. He'll have your number so if a Gregory calls, trust him to tell him where you are, if he has any questions."
     Every word is a bit more relaxed then it was before; whatever the tension was fades beneath the surface of his voice, the calm confidence that so radiates out of him replacing it.

     It's good that he doesn't need to breathe; for a moment, there, he's forgotten to. Hansl nods mutely, then reaches for the words - for wherever he'd put them away. "Jawohl. Ah, that is, of course. I will gather my possessions, then."
     Servants. Ja, rich men have servants. The old, and the powerful. Of which you are neither, Hansl. Remember it.
     "I shall arrange my bags and await his call, then." There is that German rectitude in his speech again, coloring things crisply, dragged over uncertainty. Where you are more relaxed, now he is less so. "Until my arrival, my lord. I hope your evening is a pleasant one."

     "Soon it will be."
     Greydon smiles ever so slightly, and leans back in his chair, even as he calls down to one of his ghouls and gives some instructions. He can't help but have this small smile linger on his lips-- it just won't go away. Its a touch cocky, really.

     A while later, a black car pulls up; and out of the driver's seat rises a middle-aged reasonably attractive man. He leans against the car and looks about until he notices Hansl, offering him a friendly smile, "I'm Gregory, you'd be?" he inquires, as he shuts the door and walks around to the trunk and pulls it open. He'll help get everything in after Hansl introduces himself.
     And then the drive; it's to the very edge of town, where we find a rather decently sized old Tudor-style manor, but one that is not in the absolute best of repair. "You'll excuse the decor, young sir. It's an intentional facade that Lord Treveylan likes to keep up. You head on inside, if you wish. I'll bring everything in."

     By the time the car pulls up, Hansl has been inside and out again, his luggage - well. He is a soldier. He knows how to travel light. But he is an artist, and artists cannot, do not pack lightly. There are too many things with which to draw, in this world, to paint, to paint upon. Though his other possessions are relatively few - one trunk for clothing and personal effects alone - all the rest add up to several suitcases' worth.
     And then there is Hansl. Even in his present clothing, he cannot disguise that he is German. The way he stands - the way he holds himself, as much as the pale hair, the pale skin, the pale eyes, they announce him as loudly as if he wore a sign upon his chest. His sire was compared to a wolfhound; he is a mere pup compared to what Johann Arnaul was, but there it is, the leanness, the alertness as the car comes to a halt. The cellphone has been fidgeted with; now it is put away.
     "Hansl Arnaul," the young man (young vampire - it is the same) answers earnestly. A slightly stiff bow, from the waist - no heel-click, though. "How do you do?" He has to fight with himself to refrain from moving all the luggage himself. Habits.
     He is not in the habit of too much trivial conversation, however; responsive to questions, but uncomfortable with the asking, no matter how many questions cross over his mind's eye. He is alert to his surroundings yet, however; foreign land, foreign land. Hansl watches the scenery, blinks at the approaching manor, trying to keep away the sudden return of cowed air, nervousness.
     It is in a way as if I had never left Saarbrucken...
     The architecture is different, of course...
     "I have no objections to the decor." That is said automatically. Arnaul's estate was immaculately groomed, coldly Germanic - though southern German, there was an orderliness, everything in its place. That is different; it soothes him, slightly, obscurely. Hansl nods to Gregory, hands folded behind his back as he falls unconsciously into a marching stride, approaching and climbing the steps. One gloved hand hesitates between knocking and just entering; but in the end, he decides upon entrance after all.
     I have arrived...
     To what end?

     Within, we find a hall that is what you would expect from the outside. Faded wallpaper, dusty mantels. It is a place where people are, but not a place where they care for anything; what little decoration that is present is in a state of disrepair and neglect. A man is just coming out of a side room, and this is no butler; there is an air of danger around him. He's well built, and has a deep scar upon his face. He watches Hansl for a lingering moment, and then nods to the end of the hall, "That way. Upstairs."
     At the end of the hall is a pair of doors, and they open easily.. But as they swing, they are very, very heavy. Reinforced? There are subtleties to this abode.
     The stairs lead up to the second floor, and as soon as we reach the top, we notice a change. This place is clean; immaculately kept, everything with a place and everything in that place. There is not a spec of dust to be found, and the walls are tastefully adorned with paintings of class and style.
     At the end of the upstairs hall is another pair of doors, and Greydon is waiting there, leaning against the doorframe. He's wearing a pair of jeans, the fabric tight and showing off his powerful legs, and a thin, full linen shirt which puffs about him and hangs loosely about. Only the bottom half of the buttons are done, which reveals the pale skin that is so firmly filled with muscle.
     "Hansl." he greets, a faint smile touching his lips. "Good evening." The same thing said before, on the phone. This is different, though.

     Need he have any more confirmation that he is not in Paris? This, this is not Villon's court, filled with the trappings of feathers and lace. Hansl hesitates for but a moment at the scarred man, then offers a polite nod, almost a bow, and continues upstairs as indicated.
     And everything has changed. The English - so much the same, so very strange once you pass beyond. I do not understand. Perhaps I am not meant to understand - their Alice, could not have felt the more changed.
     And he reaches the top, turning to follow the line of the hallway - the change. And at the end of the hall, he stops, before he has even heard his name. He does not stare, but he looks; with an artist's eye, as if waiting to see how muscle slides beneath skin, above bone. For a moment only; then he is moving forward again, coming to rest in front of you.
     "Lord Grey."
     Hansl bows, hands at his sides, a bow from the waist. He straightens, and there is for a moment that fragile uncertainty; the hesitation on the edge of potential blunder. "Again, danke schon, for this kind hospitality which to me you have offered." He can feel the difference; there is a difference, it shimmers on the air, brightly, on the verge of escaping. "I ... must apologize. I do not think my timing has been very good."

     That smile remains. Greydon lifts a hand up and brushes knuckles faintly over the Toreador's cheek, before the boy's chin is taken firmly in his hand, and a thumb brushes over his lips.
     He is then, in his mercurial fashion, pushes off of the door and turns about, leaving Hansl alone to walk back into the room beyond.
     It is a sitting room; there are a pair of couches around an ornate table, and a fire which glows faintly. The walls are covered in books, save in three places where the shelves are broken and fine portraits hang; one is of Greydon himself, but he could not be more then fifteen in it. There are two other men, each older, that may have a slight resemblance to Grey.
     "Why do you think that?" he inquires, as he moves over to a table to the side where numerous bottles of fine bourbon and scotch reside, "It is true, there are irritations tonight, but your company is welcome. Besides, there is nothing I may truly do about those problems now-- others are seeking to find what I need to know for me-- and so, I can think of few things that are better ways to spend time waiting then welcoming a friend from afar."
     "Care for a drink?"

     The touch leaves him gaping; speechless, questioning, silent. The ice of his eyes is not in danger of melting - yet. Winter still retains its frigid hold, but there is the lurking threat of heat that colours the threads of his irises as he stands there, so suddenly bereft of touch, of contact. What can he do, after all, but follow? Further into the English wolf's den...
     "Travel is inconvenient." Hansl finds his voice as he enters, as he is queried, in response to question. "It brings with it a plague of inconveniences and interruptions, my lord. That you have been kind enough to act as my host does not mean that I may permit myself to forget that." Somewhere, he found words; sometime between occasions, between that last time in Paris and now, he has found the latch upon his tongue and managed to pry it loose. Who would have thought it possible?
     The Toreador approaches slowly, watchful of the Brujah elder; a wisdom, perhaps. "Danke, perhaps a small one," Hansl murmurs, one hand coming up, palm outwards, from behind his back. "I am gratified and relieved to know that my intrusion is not graceless. You have been well, I hope?"

     A fine brandy is chosen, and a small glass poured. Greydon sets it into that palm as he turns around, and takes a step closer; this is not one who is holding another at hands-length, and it is the another hint that personal space is not a thing he respects.
     Not with a handsome young Toreador who is in his lair, at least...
     "Travel is a thing which most reminds me of what we are, I find; when we were creatures of the day, we had so much time-- we could push ourselves and live through day and not to achieve our ends.. Now, each night, we feel the approach of dawn and we recede... and though we can sometimes pretend that there is nothing different, nothing lost-- when you travel, you race the sun. Even for a short trip, there is only so much time to prepare, to move.. and then arrive and get settled..." His voice is soft, almost lyrical in its tone..
     A hand comes up once more, and settles upon Hansl's shoulder, fingers spreading open and then squeezing firmly.
     "I am pleased that you are here. It is no favor I give you; but if you feel the need to be in my debt, I can think of many things I want of you that you can surrender."

     Lost again. He can feel the tug of those words, of that tone, threatening his equilibrium. Who ever would have thought that he would be so susceptible to words? But beauty is in the eye of the beholder...
     The fine-fingered hand closes around the offered glass, and he holds it in his grasp, brings it to his lips, inhaling the scent with eyes half-closed, a flicker of golden lashes in front of the ice. "Had we world enough and time," Hansl murmurs; then he starts, looking up. "I - have occasionally missed the sun," he admits. "It seemed a small thing, at first. But I grew to miss it more, not less. I do not think I have entirely reconciled myself yet, to its loss."
     Toreador he may be, but in some ways, he was always a child of the sun. Golden and fair, meant for life until a war came, needing the fuel of him for its machine - and thus are worlds set into chaos, strewn and destroyed. That life is gone, now; that life is no more.
     The hand upon his shoulder makes him glance down, then back up to the other's face, as if considering something of great importance - of great weight. Honesty - how much is too much? And yet, there were words spoken, previously...
     "You know that I will not lie to you," Hansl says quietly, lips whetted with a rolling sip of brandy upon the words. "If there is anything of me that you would have, I would wish you to tell me, my lord Grey. I would know of the matters of your thoughts and of your desire; if they are of my surrender, or otherwise, I confess myself ... interested."

     "If ever you do, I will mourn for you." murmurs Greydon softly, letting his hand slide upon Hansl's shoulder towards his neck, where his thumb lightly teases on the soft skin. "I have lived for over three centuries, and I still miss it. At times I will see a movie that displays it, and there is this ache inside; when one truly reconciles to the loss, they are a monster."
     There is a small smile, and Greydon steps nearer, reaching out with his other hand to take that glass from the boy and lift it to his lips, and murmur against the glass. "Your surrender, yes. I want that." he says, with such depth in his voice.
     "But I also want you to be free to feel-- to express-- to .. shine. Did you not promise to paint me?" Greydon glances over to the side, to where the portrait of what is so clearly him-- so long, long ago... And he nods to it. "That was the last portrait I had. Classical, fine, but it is a thing of structure and no soul. I would see what you see of me when you paint; and can the artist flourish when bound and surrendering so deeply as there is this longing within me to have you surrender?"

     He doesn't sway; he is that strong, at least. Though words may tug at him, though it may flicker in his eyes as the fireplace reflected in blue and silver, he holds firm. "I try not to think on it too much. But I find it works its way into my art."
     Ah, yes. Art. Where a Toreador relives vicariously that which he has known - or which he dreams of having known.
     Distance is vanishing so rapidly. It is as a small boat skimming over the waves to land - fast, too fast. "I did promise," Hansl says softly, looks for a moment to the painting, then back to the subject. "I ... will paint you to the best of my ability. I cannot say how long it might take. How difficult it may be. The truth, my lord?" There's a slight tremor, and he ducks his head, then, abruptly, steps back, turning to approach the painting, examining it as if the answers to truth are in the whorls and loops of paint. A fingerprint of verity.
     "The truth, my lord, is that no matter how perceptive my eye - if you wish me to paint you as you are, then I must first see you as you are. I cannot know you without that seeking. Without that quest - how can I hope to paint anything but a shell and give it a name?" There. He was able to speak, without that delicious claustrophobia of presence. Hansl turns, taking a deep breath as he looks to the elder. "I ... hesitate to speak, on some things." He rubs a hand over his other shoulder, pressing his lips together, glancing down and then back up. "But I do not intend to paint a lie. How much you wish to reveal - does not affect my desire. You know... I think... what my wish is... ja?"

     "Tell me." replies Greydon in a simple voice. Although he allows Hansl to retreat from him to go and examine the portrait that has endured for three centuries, now that once more the boy has turned, the Brujah approaches.
     "Time. Once, I was constrained by time; now I only feel the ache of the dawn. Beyond this, it is as a warm wave that washes over me gently, and can push me nowhere... Be it a day.. or a decade... what is time to me?" Greydon chuckles softly, coming closer, lifting his hands to settle upon Hansl's waist.
     Treveylan tilts his head to the side slightly, "I asked you once before to call me Greydon when we were in private; and though time has passed-- but a mere moment-- and you are now within my lair instead of your own, do you defy that wish? I deny you that defense."
     There is a faint nod, "Say it, my name. And tell me, though I may know, what your wish is."

     He is silent for a moment, closing his eyes, listening. It is not a listening with his ears alone; a silent, expectant hush that dances attendance upon that nearness, upon that touch. He is listening with his skin. He is listening with the faint hairs that stand upon the nape of his neck, with the fibers of flesh between his fingers. And so quietly, inaudible to anything mortal, he sighs.
     Time is a dimension as any other... one I have yet to explore more than fleetingly, unlike so many of my kind. I am young, yet...
     "I apologize," hesitation, "Greydon," Hansl says finally, when he speaks. "I have ... had time to think of this matter, since ... last we met." His eyes are still closed, his concentration upon that waiting, absorbing sensory exploration; and lightly, so lightly one of his hands steals up to touch a hand at his waist. A barest, fleeting touch, the ghost of a feather.
     "I desire you," Hansl's voice is quiet, a whisper of thin and threaded air. "And I know that this desire has the potential to unmake me. I desire you because of your power - not in the sense political, my lord - Greydon - though they say that such power is an aphrodisiac. But the force of your personality. Your strength. Do you remember," he asks suddenly, almost demands, "what I told you, when last we met? I pay respect to both wisdom and to strength. And in you, I find both in some measure."
     "I am an artist, and it is an artist's duty to respond to passion where I find it, where I see it, where I recognise it, ja? I know the risk - that in finding it, I may be drowned, may be burned away to nothingness." Slowly, Hansl turns, looking upwards at the painting until he is instead facing the Brujah. "If I am a moth, then I will die and become only ash. If I am good German steel, then I will become refined. I know only that I want your passion, Greydon, emptied upon me in fullest measure, to answer as best I can with my own. If ... that is your wish as well."
     He finishes speaking, the hesitation creeping back in at the last, and he stands, stolid, as if bracing himself for criticism or demerit.

     There is a moment of silence after Hansl's words, and then Greydon lifts his hand up to take that glass of bourbon and cast it casually aside. It is shattered, even as the elder's hand returns to Hansl's waist. "In life, once, so long ago... I like to think that I was a passionate man; that I believed and burned with those beliefs, that my destiny was both mine to grasp and God's to grant... The union."
     Greydon leans forward, and the wall behind becomes firm against Hansl's back, as he offers a faint grin, "And then, everything changed. Passion? Passion is a now a thing that I feel within; a deep current that rises and burns, that threatens to consume..."
     The Lord Trevleyan's hand slides to his waist, and up along under his shirt, caressing firmly, "That is my wish. To let this flame within sweep over you; fill you. You may be burned. Or you may, indeed, be refined."
     And then his body is there, pinning the Toreador against the wall-- there is nowhere to escape. "You will paint what you see; what you find. What do you need in order to see me, as you said you must do?"

     He watches the glass's flight only for a moment; to watch the flight would mean being unable to observe the caster, the true subject of his interest, his scrutiny, and for now, his art. As distracted as he is, each distraction, each diversion is part of a greater whole; elements of but a single picture. The touch to his waist, the words, the meanings that roil in such turbulence behind those words.
     So much of what is said could be taken more than one way...
     The solid wall gets his attention away from the puzzle, blue ice crackling with his muted gasp as he looks up to those green eyes with which he is faced; and then his eyes close, lips staying parted as he is touched so directly. How is he to think, to even begin to respond, when all sense, all intellect is so rapidly plucked from him?
     His eyes reopen as he is pinned, hands lifting to the Brujah's broad shoulders, the thawing visible in his eyes. Hansl wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, held between his teeth. "...I need you to be who you wish me to paint," the German youth speaks at last, after that silence, chin tilted up just a little. His expression shows desire which eats away greedily at reluctance, at hesitation, an acknowledgment of his need for self-preservation - and of it, too, being so quickly and thoroughly abandoned under the prescience of this touch. "The more you wish me to see, the more you must show me. I make myself wholly vulnerable to you, my lord Greydon... because you are powerful. And it is only through my vulnerability that you will find your own, or if you have it in truth, ja?"
     He speaks with the certainty of the artist, those pale blue eyes lifting, the back of his head resting against the wall. Slowly, one hand slips along the elder's shoulder, to the so open collar of his shirt and just within, a deft brush of fingers. "...I speak plainly, now that I am wholly abandoning what I once knew," Hansl continues softly, in completion of the thought. "You must decide how vulnerable you are - will be. How much truth you will entrust to me. But I? I choose to place myself in your hands ... completely."

     The pressure increases, and Greydon's body seems to demand more of the boy, desire so clearly filling it as it binds Hansl against that wall. There is a sound that is almost a growl as his hands slide up his sides, squeezing to the fabric and... It is torn asunder, as if it were but mere mist to be ripped by the gentlest of winds....
     The fangs are there, as Greydon's lips trail faintly along the Toreador's jaw, their sharpness evident, a dangerous promise. Will one day he fail in the deep desire to feed? And on that day, will he be able to afford not drinking until there is nothing left to take? No elder can sip of a creature barely beyond being a childe... yet.. the urge is always there to drink...
     Danger and desire...
     Greydon pulls away slightly, his eyes carrying with them a powerful intensity, as a hand seizes strongly to Hansl's wrist,... and he turns away, easily pulling him along. "Come, then, Hansl. I will show you my sanctum; I will show you something that very, very few can ask me and see."
     There is a soft chuckle, as the young man is pulled towards the side door, "I will show you my library, and there we may.. speak." Speak? That voice is far, far too husky to intend such simple things as.. words.

     Just as well he included the baggage in with his art supplies. If this is to become a habit, he will soon run out of clothes, even so. Chalk up one shirt and jacket, sacrificed upon the altar of vanity and of passion. But there is no indignation in those blue eyes; there is only the faintest flicker of shock, faintest rounding of his lips in surprise, and then his eyes are closed again, head tilted back.
     What creature such as he, such as they, who know so well the power, the passion, the pleasure of the Kiss, can fail to be moved at such a moment? There is a little part of the youth which longs for that sensation - of the penetration of fangs into flesh, to feel his stolen life stolen in turn, ebbing away for however long the other demands, despites. And there are many who might desire his blood; its power, though not unique, is substantial, as old as was his sire. The talented, clever hands of the artist are presently fully occupied with their contact of the skin beneath that opened shirt, feeling out the contours and definitions of the skin stretched over that well-muscled frame.
     Desire, and desire of danger - is it not a perfect moment, in its way?
     The retreat, however slight, is what rocks him back, opens his eyes anew. He could hardly struggle now, could he, with his capitulation so thoroughly voiced, so almost humiliatingly open. His lips are parted again, as if in some breathless answer about to be given. But what can Hansl say? His eyes must serve as his eloquence, for his words are too simple. "I will see with pleasure whatever you will show me, my lord..."

     Greydon casts a faint smile over his shoulder at Hansl, letting his eyes drink down over his exposed skin, "Mmn, my apologies. I didn't mean to ruin your shirt-- the moment." He chuckles softly, and then they are wandering through to the next room.
     This room is a nexus; there are numerous doors leading off to anonymous places within the house, and against one wall, the cool steel of an elevator. An elevator? When one took the stairs to reach here? And the house only looked about three stories, from outside. Alas.
     The Toreador is let go, and Greydon takes a key out from his pocket to insert it into the door, and this opens a keypad which a passcode is entered into. A sweeping gesture is offered, and he will then follow the young man into the cool, immaculate metal of the inside.
     "A great deal of care has been put into the sanctuary; the library." He casts Hansl a wry smirk, "Upgrades were made when our little city was bombed not so long ago, and it is now proof against all such difficulties, in case anyone gets uppity again and decides to start another world war."

     "It is of no consequence." He is exposed, conscious of his exposure, the knowledge of it tinting his gaze. He is caught. He is aware of where he has placed himself. "I have other shirts. I did not anticipate remaining unclothed for the duration of my visit."
     And then? He colours, that instinctive painting of his skin with faint pink blush. "I - that came out wrong, my lord. Allow me to apologize. I, ah - ja." His hands go behind his back as he takes position in the elevator, doing his utmost to recall his military training. It is difficult to look soldierly when shirtless and blushing...
     As to talk of world war - it almost sets him at ease. Such remarks, he has grown accustomed to; and in this fashion, it is almost casual, easy to respond. "I give you my word, Lord Grey," Hansl answers austerely, "I have no intentions of triggering global conflict. With my paintings or otherwise. Should war break out while I am within your domain, you may do as you see fit."

     An amused grin is offered to Hansl, and he lifts a hand up to touch just below his neck and let a finger trail down his chest, before it hooks into his pants and tugs the boy closer. "If war breaks out, I shall have to keep you hostage, little one."
     A hand reaches out to slip the key into the elevator, turning it and another panel opening; a code is entered and then dooown, dooown it begins to go.
     "Hmm? Oh, what were you apologizing? I did not anticipate that you would remain clothed for the duration of your visit, either-- what a waste, especially after I have seen your canvas, and painted upon it with my desire... did you think I would have you here and not experience your depth again?" The hand slips about Hansl's waist and tugs him close, the elder's lips coming near to his, teasingly close...
     And then there is a soft chime, and the elevator's door opens slowly. A long hall, cool concrete, poorly lit, goes about ten feet beyond.. Clearly underground. A bomb shelter, or some such.

     Hansl starts slightly; minute though the reaction might seem, it is a telling, visible one to any with eyes to see. The touch, the tug, and the words...
     Words, words, words...
     They strike at him. They sink into him, tear him open, rendering him mutely conflicted, wrapped in desire and unbidden, even unwilling pleasure. Why should the notion of being held hostage be so insidious, so passionate? Why should careless endearments swim in his blood as strange fish in stranger seas?
     It leaves him so uniquely exposed to ideas. The eyes are closed on ice and open on summer. When he is pulled close, he is already responding, chin rising, a hand going to where Greydon's shirt still is tied. "Ein Herz, das nicht schlagt, ruhrt sich," Hansl murmurs, lips parting on the German syllables. "I look forward to learning from you, mein herr."
     The doors open, but he is unmoving for a moment. He is held. And he has no desire to move just yet, blue eyes locked to green, as if he might try to stare the elder down; not in defiance, but in intent study.

     The touch is brief, his lips to Hansl's, even as an arm wraps about him and encloses him in steel.. There is a flickering of his tongue, and then a sharp tug of his teeth upon the boy's lower lip, before it is done.
     Greydon lets the poor German go, and turns to stride down along the hall, towards a thick door of metal at the end. There is a stairway that is passed on the way, likely leading to the first floor, but it is passed without any notice. The locks disengaged, our Lord Treveylan seizes the door and with some difficulty-- difficulty!-- pulls it open with soundlessly. There is no friction, only terrible weight. The door is thick, and looks more to be a kind of vault then normal door.
     "And what would you learn, Hansl?" he inquires, as he ushers the boy beyond, closing them in after.
     The light here is muted and soft, and the air absolutely dry; if one were human and could breath, they would find it nearly suffocating in this room. There are four long shelves that lead down to the end, where a fine english sitting room has been replicated, complete with a sofa, a table, and a sideboard behind. There's also a computer system there, silently buzzing along.
     The shelves are sealed, each one with glass and an electronic latch to the side, the temperature and light within kept perfectly where it must be to best preserve the numerous books found within the library. Great expense, great care; this place is built such that what is contained here will last as long as Greydon...
     "Welcome to the sanctuary." he says, softly.

     "What would you choose to teach me?"
     A question for a question, the breath taken in raggedly to propel his response. And yet, in some way, he seems calmer now; calmer than when he had been in Paris. When he had been taken beyond the veil of desire. "I wish to learn many things, my lord. Of the universe, less than of how we interact with that universe. Every hand is swathed in colours; flavors; textures; emotions. Some interactions please. Others disturb. Some are merely dull. Others are the finest Art there is."
     He turns at the sound of the closing door, as if he had been about to change his mind - too late. It is closed. Escape is gone. But for all that momentary lift in his eyes, there is still that calm - no panic, now. "I believe that you are very good Art," Hansl summarizes neatly, one hand pressing against his bare chest. "I ... wish to immerse myself in it. In you."
     He has contained his emotions, for this time. He is more like a German club boy than a German soldier, right now, shirtless and touching himself, lips parting and rounded on that last English word. There is an element of stoicism, of the potential for sacrifice in his eyes - but calm. Without the bone-breaking tension that usually animates his form.
     And then he spins away on one heel, hands dropping to meet behind his back, below the small of his back, curling into closed fists as he looks around. Hansl does not speak. He paces forward, straightens, head lifting as if at attention as he looks around. Absorbs. "It feels as you do," he says finally, "but as if there is something that has been missing. Something absent - but not sought. Something on your list, my lord? Or something you have no expectation of finding? Or have you now found it?"

     "There is always something missing; always a thing sought and not found, and always something obtained that was longed for... If ever there comes a time when it is complete, when there is nothing more that I long for... then there will be no point bothering to live again." replies Greydon, gesturing idly into the shelves as Hansl gazes into them, full of books of various ages, some open with the muted light shining upon them.
     When they reach the end, he turns about and faces Hansl once again, his hands coming-out to tuck into the edge of his pants and pull him close. "A life without desire-- a life without need-- a life truly fulfilled? That is not what I want."
     He chuckles softly, and leans forward so that his lips brush along his cheek towards his ear, "Is that what you want to immerse yourself in? There is never an end, Hansl; there is never enough... But you are right on part of it; there is something missing that was supposed to be here, tonight. It was stolen from me."
     "But you are here, as well. I consider that a fair trade.. for now."

     "Stolen?"
     He curses himself silently. It has no right to sound so frayed about the edges, so breathless. His hands lift to Greydon's shoulders, palms smoothing slowly against skin and fabric, fingers outspread. Eyes half closed, eyes closed, eyes half open...
     "Is it so strange, my lord?" He whispers it as he feels the tracery of lips along his skin, curving his head to the side in almost invitation. "Do you doubt your fascination? I know; I plummet like a stone. I know; it is dangerous. There is a part of me which screams at me to run, to preserve myself, auber selbst - but if I did, I would always wonder what would have been. What happens to all the books that we forget on trains, Lord Grey? All the novellas we close, partway through; we cannot read them all. We cannot write them all. And I? I am a poor painter. I would be lost as a writer."
     Slowly, his arms go around the strong shoulders, settling around the elder's neck, face turned upwards with a curious, questioning glint to his eyes, his mouth, lips just slightly parted. "If I have suffered in vain... then I will know it then. But I believe that I am the architect of my suffering... and I have had enough of this control. If you have desired me, why should I not confess my own desire - my sin? You will punish or forgive as you see fit. You will decide..."
     "All that I must do is act..."
     "What have you lost? What do you gain, my lord Grey?"

     "Stolen." replies Greydon softly, his hands sipping about Hansl's waist to slide up along his back, teasing faintly upon his spine.
     "There is, I admit, a part of me that wishes to send you away; for you are as a harp which touches to the strings of my passion and makes them sing... And that song must be answered when it is evoked... And it can be overwhelming, I know." He leans forward, and lets his cheek lightly brush upon the boy's cheek.
     The whisper comes near to his ear, "I have heard of your sire, and as respected as he is-- there are some things we disagree on quite strongly. He has much in common with a dear friend of mine, one who is deeply responsible for who I am today-- both in their spirituality, their...." He shrugs slightly.
     "Desire is no sin."
     "Someone has stolen a thing from me, and other things I had promised to obtain for associates. Someone will regret this, when we find out who. A book, a valuable book, but only one item in a collection of acquisitions. What have I gained? A handsome invader into my homeland, who must be made to know how serious such an invasion is..."

     The German youth shudders, curving forward into that hold upon his waist, upon his back, a response as much to the audible as to the physical. "I want you," Hansl murmurs, eyes closed at the touch to his cheek. His arms tighten around the other man's neck. "Du ist ... I have tasted your passion. It is - I find English fails me, when I think of it."
     Bigger than I am, bigger, perhaps, than the world could contain...
     "I do not pretend that I understand it - or my own reaction to it." Hansl remains in that position, holding himself close against the stronger form so close to him, cheek resting against cheek, his eyes closed as if in prayer. "It is overwhelming. And it makes me long for you, my Grey Lord. To be within your grasp - and to be wanted by you, in turn."
     Could it be as simple as that? Nein, nein, beware the simple answers; they betray you, Hansl, as you have seen already...
     Slowly, so reluctantly, his grasp loosens, one hand sliding against the Brujah's shoulders, to the side of his neck. His cheek is brushed as he straightens, that thawed blue gaze seeking out green eyes. "I do not know," Hansl admits, voice low, caught in his throat. "It is - difficult. I have come to realize that his way is not mine; that my sire was, perhaps, not on the path for which I am meant. Had I not realized it, I could not now be here... could not be yours for the taking."
     He takes a deep breath, then, from habit more than the need for speech, and his words again go askew, go astray. "...I do not know of this theft," Hansl all but stammers. "B-but invasion, my lord? I ... how serious is this?"

     There is a soft laugh, and Greydon allows his hands to wander over the young man's body, gripping so tightly to him, as if insisting Hansl's body meld to his own. "You are the invader, beautiful one. Here, to my country, here, to my home; soon, to my bed... It is very, very serious. You will cry out."
     And then there is a kiss, fierce and almost rough in its demand, unyielding in the passion and strength. It lingers, and then as suddenly as it came, it is gone, and Greydon is no longer there... Free of Hansl's arms, turning and striding casually back the way they came.
     "It is always difficult to realize that the path of the one that made us may not be our own; I learned this once, when the path of my maker would lead me to destruction... Come, Hansl." The last is said with a firm tone, the hint of a commander who expects obedience.
     He strides off towards the door out of the vault, triggering the unlock mechanism and then hefting it open-- again, with difficulty. No mortal could ever open that door. "Instead, I found a path of honor, and pride. Have you learned anything of seeing my sanctuary, my library, young Hansl, handsome Hansl?"

     It leaves him reeling. Oh, he is lost again, so thoroughly and completely lost. The words - the kiss - the strength of it all. Hansl stands there as if he has been struck; Lot's wife, turned to a pillar of salt for looking back. But he has not looked back...
     He looks forward, at the one who has so spoken, whose kiss still lingers against his skin, against the air as a physical presence...
     How he has remained on his feet, he is no longer certain. He stands there, shirtless, stiffening into attention at the command. There is no thought of disobeying; though the soldier reacts, it is the artist that peers out of those dazed, half-shocked blue eyes. His footsteps are slow, gaining speed, and he swallows, then moistens his lips, a flush to his cheeks.
     "I have learned several things, my lord," Hansl whispers, hands gathered together in front of himself as he comes to a halt to one side of Greydon, attention focused entirely on him. Only on him. "A little of you. More of myself."

     The young man is ushered through, and then the vault is sealed once again. This englishman learned well the lesson of the bombings; nothing will endanger his collection. Soon the elevator is entered once again, and as soon as this happens...
     It is a swift movement, and Hansl will find himself pressed against the cool steel of the walls, with Greydon pressed ever so firmly against him. Hands go to seize Hansl's wrists and lift them up, holding them above his head, pinning him there...
     "Tell me what you have learned." the elder murmurs, his voice so deep, a husky hint of passion there, and desire felt as his body presses so demandingly against Hansl's own.
     "You have come to my home, and seen what few see; there are not many I trust to see my collection, my library, my sanctuary... Is this gift lost on you? Or do you understand-- do you learn, because there is nothing more beautiful then learning... Even the passion, the soul of yours that I want and sense, that makes me hunger... It is but a different way to learn. Art, the expression of the depth within, is a way to teach."
     "Tell me."

     Desire flares in his eyes. Contrast. Cold, hard steel; warm, hard flesh. He is trapped - caught, pinned as surely as a specimen to a board. And Hansl has no other thought but for where he is.
     It is almost a miracle that he can find his voice; yet from somewhere, almost alien to him, he hears himself speaking, voice drifting from him as if disembodied. His eyes lock to the elder's as if entranced, but there is an acuity of vision, a clarity to them...
     "You will never be completely satisfied, though you may take pleasure in your triumphs; to find final satisfaction, to you, would imply putting an end to passion, and thus, an end to raison d'être - reason for being," the German answers, voice so quiet, almost hushed, as if giving confession. Father, forgive me, for it has been twelve years since my last confession...
     "You are a collector. But you do not allow the things which you collect to depreciate in value; you hold them in high esteem, and you do all within your power to protect them. God protect any who attempts to steal from you, for you will hunt them most relentlessly; what you lay your stamp upon, it is yours until such time as you choose to hold it no longer. I do not think that occurs very often, my lord. It takes sufficient from you to decide to declare something as yours, that to then put it aside would not be lightly done." Hansl swallows again, closing his eyes - just for a moment, to find words when his face feels so very hot, his flesh, so very irresolute. "Your passions run deep... and dangerous."
     As if it were not obvious. As if I were not upon the very edge of being consumed by them - so willingly, at that.
     "You believe in honour and loyalty. When you give your word, it is your all. You are - as I have said - a man of power, mein herr... Lord Greydon ..." The boy squirms at that point, quite despite himself, fangs dragging against his lower lip. Hansl opens his eyes to slits, staring up through his eyelashes. "I am honored by your testing me. But I do not fail to realize that it is a test."

     The Lord Treveylan gazes at Hansl as he speaks, letting the boy's words wash over him; perhaps it is a test, perhaps he does judge, for at the end he gives a slight nod. The one hand continues to hold the boy's wrists as if they were enclosed in steel, and the other slips down between their bodies to tug open his pants, so that it may slip around and behind to take a firm hold of his ass.
     "Good. You pay attention. You watch; you gaze... That is the greatest skill any artist can have, to open themselves up to allow their environment to fill them, to consume them so that they may take this and from the experience and /create/ something..." His hand slips farther in, finger playing upon the innermost place of the boy... He presses inside with his finger.
     His breath is felt against the boy's lips, and his eyes stare so intensely, "You will begin painting what you may tonight, perhaps, but no later than tomorrow. I would see you pour your soul into it.. I want to see you, Hansl. Will you reveal yourself to me, utterly?"

     His head tips back against the steel wall to which he is pressed. How did he get from fully clothed to almost fully naked? He knows, but somehow it feels as if he missed a step; blinked at the wrong moment during a movie, and now nothing quite makes sense. And he doesn't have the leisure to rewind and watch it again. Hansl squirms at that touch, that hold, an involuntary reaction to being held thusly. And abruptly, he goes still, eyes suddenly quite wide, taking a shallow breath.
     Relax...
     Relax, hell, you don't know...
     Relax, you knew you would surrender. You knew this before leaving Paris...
     Somehow, the reality of it is suddenly sinking in. Hansl swallows again, nodding minutely. "Ja," he whispers. "I," he closes his eyes, a moan escaping him, from deep within his throat. It embarrasses him; it brings a spreading flush of colour to taint the pale skin. "To you, I surrender, ja. What you wish, will be yours. Your hostage. Captive. What you wish, will be, Greydon." It seems almost an impertinence, to use that name; he squints, opening his eyes very slowly, struggling with the urge to squirm, fighting to remain perfectly still.
     "What you wish to see, I will show you..."

     "Good."
     Greydon's hand comes out from where it held, pressed, and seeks to the front of Hansl's open pants to tug on him even as he turns around and walks out of the elevator as it opens, into the room of doors, and through a certain one to the side.
     His room is a modest thing; there are, of course, many books.. A desk, and a large four-posted bed which which is ever so flat, as if the blankets upon it were too thin to provide great comfort. Clean, well maintained, and having a certain elegance to it.
     Tugged, Hansl is; pulled until they are within, and then Greydon turns about and puts hands to the boy's waist, moving him as if he were a feather upon the wind. "You are handsome; that is why I first came to you. But you are not a mere face..." One hand comes up to trace along the scar, "Tell me where this comes from; it is a symbol and one reason why you are so enticing. You are not soft, you are not weak... I would not desire you so if you were."
     A faint smile is offered, and his body presses near, the bed behind the destination where Hansl finds himself backed towards... The promise... The doom... "I will temper your steel.. refine it.. You will not crack before me, will you?"

     It is probably the first time he's ever been quite so literally led by his dick.
     But he is not resisting; rather, he is having great difficulty in maintaining anything like his usual grace, doing his best to keep up. As abruptly as a bullet, his brain has stopped working; the thoughts which plagued him, the eloquence which he possessed now have deserted him, left him shivering as if in the heart of a raging blizzard.
     And him without any clothes...
     Hansl is no stranger to austerity. His new surroundings receive a dazed blink, almost a flutter of eyelashes, but no argument; no commentary. It almost would surprise him more if the room looked any different, in any way reflected less the character of its owner, its inhabitant.
     He does not look long upon it. There is strength which touches him; words which leave him longing, that yearning unable to be hidden from his expression - from his eyes. There is no thought of dissembling - no matter how shaming the truth might, in fact, be.
     "I am weaker than you believe, mein herr," Hansl answers softly, eyes closing at the touch against his face. He closes his eyes as if he never intends to open them again. "When I was drafted... I received the mark when I entered the Army." His accent thickens, and he looks up again, a furtively shy, uncertain glance through his eyelashes. "...It is no mark of honour. I am sorry."
     He finds himself apologizing, flushing, even as he is backed towards the bed. Threat and promise, fulfillment and destruction - are they not two sides of the same coin? "I - I will do my best not to shame you." Hansl may not crack, but his voice does, just a little, his hands settled finally on Greydon's chest, looking for all the world as if he were about to push the elder away. Of course, he does no such thing. His hands rest there, and he swallows nervously. "My word, Lord Grey. To you, I give."

     The shirt which so loosely hangs from Greydon's form is tugged, and buttons snap aside as the fabric can be heard tearing slightly before it falls off of his shoulders. No more is there a covered form for Hansl to rest his hands upon; now only the powerful muscles beneath soft skin.
     "I believe you are stronger then you think you are; even if you failed so long ago. Who is without failure? Only the one who has never been tested, who has lived a simple life of no consequence...."
     The elder's hands push down upon the boy's pants and lets them fall away, before his eyes drink down over the revealed form. "I long for you." He reaches out to take Hansl's hand and press it upon his groin, where his hardness can be felt and the promise of it is ever so real.
     "I do not worry about shame, or failure.. I am more concerned for the one who does not live life, who does not risk it-- for in that risk comes glories, and in that risk comes the inevitable fall... Both always come... If you will risk it."

     He is not expected to speak of the mark upon his face. It is a moment of relief. It shows in his eyes, that brief flash of it - and then Hansl's gaze is torn from such thoughts. The past? What of it?
     The present is much more interesting. He sounds almost American.
     "Sie sind schon..." The words slip out breathlessly, his hands sliding over that smooth skin, drinking in the strength beneath it. "I look at you and I think of a lion," his voice is hushed, "the way your muscles move beneath the hide. The way that..." That thought dies an early death, clubbed over the head and dropped like a fly as his hand is taken, possessed, moved - and to there.
     Hansl's gaze moves to half-mast, eyelashes flickering as his breath quickens for speech. He is pushing his boots off with his heels, with his toes, so that they can fall away as his pants. It is a moment of hesitation that is seen; not of action, but of speech. And the moment ends; and bold words leave the boy's tongue.
     "For you," Hansl says the words as steadily as if they were rehearsed, though his shining gaze makes plain their spontaneity, "I would risk anything, my lord Grey. For you, I would give anything."

     The Lord Treveylan pushes Hansl, and he will find himself tossed down upon the bed.. It is not soft, but instead firm, and soon Greydon is there upon him. Pants? They are tugged open and he slips free of them, and when the elder presses down against Hansl it is skin to skin.
     His voice is like a growl, low and deep, the sound seeming to reverberate from deep within, "Handsome, beautiful; how I long for you." he whispers. His lips are upon Hansl's own, a rough and demanding kiss, the touch of fangs felt there between them, an occasional sharpness felt.
     And then, those same lips, that same tongue, it lavishes upon Hansl's neck.. He feels the throb of blood within the boy's neck, and the fangs press against it for an instant-- almost strong enough to pierce skin,... Oh, how the blood calls to him to drink...
     But instead, he presses his hips firmly against the boy, his arousal demanding of a response, his hands roaming over him, squeezing and pressing firmly against the Toreador's flesh.
     "I hunger for you."

     And again, the madness rises, holds him securely within its grasp. Hypnotic, the words; shimmering, those words, and what they represent, the touches which accompany them, the sights presented for him to feast upon! Toreadors are as enslaved by their passions as any Brujah. Hansl moans as he is pressed down upon, his hands going to Greydon's hips. And he arches his lithe frame against that solid, solid weight.
     The kiss parts his lips; he parts them readily, unmindful of the presence of fangs. It is a kiss which he has dreamed of since Paris. And it ends - too soon, all too soon. He would cry out, perhaps pout if it were not for the distracting factor. Not gone, Hansl. No, he has not left you. See, there is his mouth, against your...
     He is not immune to that temptation, either - the temptation of the pleasure of the Kiss. His shiver can be felt, through the ripple of flesh, the shudder upon the bed. And that firm press brings a groan up from his depths. "Ja..."
     He can't keep his hands entirely still. They slide up Greydon's sides, move to stroke his back firmly, blunted fingernails dragging against his shoulders. "I have thought," Hansl gasps, "of nothing but you since Paris, my lord. As little as I knew - as much as I hope to learn. I ... have much to learn." He arches upwards, trying to mold his body to the firm pressure of the Brujah's flesh. "As you wish, my lord..."

     The elder is unyielding, unbending in his passion. Awakened, it consumes...
     He lifts his lips away from the temptation of that neck, and instead presses them against the young man's lips, even as their bodies grind together. Hands stroke over him, caressing upon thighs and guiding them about his waist... There is a possessiveness to his every touch, a demand that defies any denial...
     "Bend." whispers Greydon against the boy's lips in a brief reprise, ".. Bend to me, as you must. I am no artist, and yet you are my canvas; upon you I will paint the depths of my passion, my desire, and I will hear you cry out and see what fulfillment may be found within you.. You are a rose, and I will pluck you and keep you close, I will not allow you to fade. Blossom, for me, my handsome Hansl..."
     His hands grip to the young man's ass, and again a finger slips about and into him, probing... Preparing... "Bend to me."

     There have been times in his existence where Hansl has been Called; spoken to, spoken for in brief. But never like this.
     No... not like this...
     He is trembling with eagerness. And, in truth, with nerves; it shocks him to the core of his being, this need. Obediently, his legs lift, wrapping around Greydon's waist so that his ankles cross, one foot hooking a heel over the other ankle. He squeezes his thighs against that firmly muscled form, and a soft moan slides from between his lips.
     Ich bin, wo Sie mich setzen...
     Ich bin, wem Sie mich sind bieten...
     Ich bin Ihr...
     He cannot find words so coherent as these. Not in German, not in English, not in any language. That his words have been remembered, taken and turned against him now - he could swoon, were his attention even a little less focused on the other. "Ja," Hansl bites his lip for a moment, his hips arching even as he relaxes to that preparation, eyes sliding back behind his eyelids with a flutter of pale lashes. His arms go round the English lord's neck, clasping as he shivers, shudders, trembles. And from somewhere, he finds his words.
     "I am where you place me..."
     "I am who you bid me be..."
     "I am yours..."

     There is nothing that is offered, that is not taken...
     Greydon's lips are a consuming storm, sweeping everything away, even as his body presses into the young man and holds him tightly against the firm bed.. Lips and hands, what is the difference when each is as demanding as the other?
     After a time, when Hansl is made ready, Greydon presses into his body with a slow, relentless glide.. He gazes at the boys eyes, seeking to see the surrender as much as feel his body taken.. And there is a deep, low groan within the elder's throats.
     So soft, and so firm; so yielding to my demands...
     Treveylan consumes Hansl, as much as one could without drinking of him; he thrusts into him with such force and unforgiving passion that he would perhaps leave a mortal broken, and even that is still holding back from what he ultimately could let loose...
     Eventually, eons pass and passion reaches its peak, and the elder cries out as he finds the end of his desire within the young man, gasping not for need of air but from instinct...

     He is as a leaf upon a storm-tossed ocean.
     Buffeted by such brutal storms, thrown by waves that then drag him down beneath their darkened depths; he is drowning. That it is in sensation, in emotion, rather than in water...
     That hardly matters, does it?
     Vampire he may be, but he will remember this, later. He will feel it. He will remember. But right now, there is no thinking. Canines lengthen, pressing against his lip as he arches and twists beneath and around that conquering form. Every time he tightens, there is that whimper; an instinct which is immediately both rewarded and punished, echoed in the tightening and then relaxing of his grip around the Brujah's neck.
     There is no speech. When Greydon ascends, Hansl buries his face in the elder's shoulder, mouth agape. He is as tense as a bowstring, trembling, a cry driven from him in a low, hoarse voice; a wordless shout, his grasp suddenly slipping free so that he falls back against the firm bedding. There is a faint sheen to his eyes, to his lips; bloodied where his fangs have pressed, bloodied where he now drapes one forearm. So softly, he whispers, below any mortal ear's threshold. "Grey."

     Greydon's weight settles against Hansl, a hand stroking over his side after they are spent. He gives a long, soft sigh, and places an almost gentle kiss against the young man's chin. "Hansl..." he repeats softly.
     A hand tightens to the young man's waist, and Greydon lets his eyes settle closed. He murmurs softly, "Sleep. Tomorrow, when the sun sets, we will rise-- and you will begin to paint what it is you see of me."
     There is a soft chuckle, and he murmurs, "How long will you remain here, in London? I fear that I may actually miss your presence once you return to Paris. You are more then you believe yourself to be, Hansl."

     His limbs are so heavy. He had not thought it possible, this delicious lassitude; had not thought it possible, to have such release. Freedom found in surrender - liberty in giving up the self.
     Who would have thought it possible...
     The words filter past that pleasant haze, and with a soft sound, Hansl shifts his arm away again, but does not open his eyes as he speaks.
     "I will remain until the painting is finished, my lord."
     Simple words - but indeterminate in their meaning. And so, he adds to them, opening his eyes for a moment, closing them again, wiping away those dilute crimson tears. "I am not expected back. I am free to return if I choose; I will need to visit the court here, and announce myself. But I will remain at least until the completion of the portrait, my lord. Until such time as you see fit to be rid of me."

     "Dangerous words." murmurs the elder softly. There is a faint chuckle, and a languid kiss upon the young man's lips. "Dangerous words." And then, he allows rest to settle over him and pull him away.

Posted by rowan at February 25, 2006 04:33 PM